


Geralt Discovers Jaskier's Prostate

by Bourneblack



Series: Discoveries [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Developing Relationship, Edgeplay, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feelings Realization, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has a Big Dick, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Size Queen, M/M, Miscommunication, No beta we die like mne, Overstimulation, Porn With Plot, Possessive Sex, Switching, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Under-negotiated Kink, can it really be called miscommunication if geralt never communicates in the first place?, playing a bit with witcher lore, prostitutes deserve to be paid more to deal with this shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:27:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24006616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bourneblack/pseuds/Bourneblack
Summary: "My asshole is tighter than a cunt," Jaskier says.Geralt gives him a predatory look, slipping his fingers from Jaskier’s body. “Not when I’m through with it.”ORGeralt realizes he's being a bad boyfriend, tries to figure out how to be a good boyfriend, and ends up drinking a lot and buying Jaskier pretty things.Working titles for this were: "They're taking the Witchers to Novigrad," "A Demisexual and a Pansexual walk into a tavern," and "Geralt fucks Jaskier to unconsciousness in a bathtub."Can be read as a standalone.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Discoveries [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1731319
Comments: 56
Kudos: 1845
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	Geralt Discovers Jaskier's Prostate

**Author's Note:**

> This is less silly than the first one, but has some good old fashion emotions in it. And is still a bit silly.
> 
> This can be read as a standalone! The prequel just shows how they got together and why Geralt has been such a powerbottom.
> 
> This takes place after the Djinn and before the dragon hunt. I've changed around the Djinn's last wish a tiny bit.
> 
> Also HOW did this become 12K????
> 
> Note: There's some under negotiated kink at the end, where bascially Geralt denies Jaskier's orgasm a bunch. All is well between the guys, but fyi.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

## Geralt Discovers Jaskier’s Prostate

“Look at me, you beautiful beast.”

Jaskier’s voice is almost a whisper, but Geralt hears it, his eyes snapping open to gaze into Jaskier’s, the pupils wide, the edges of the lids soft as Jaskier’s cock completes another deliberate thrust, Jaskier feeling each individual inch as it is sheathed into the Witcher’s body for the hundredth time.

They lay on their sides, Jaskier joined with Geralt for a second time that evening. That first one was fast. Feverish, driven by novelty, Geralt still basking in the wake of his new discovery as Jaskier stretches his own endurance to the maximum. Jaskier had, amazingly, convinced Geralt to take the second one slow, to actually give Jaskier a bit of control.

Geralt’s hair has crossed over his face; the strands stick to his skin, wet with sweat. His skin is pale yellow and flickering in the firelight, lips pale and perpetually parted as he lets out tiny, gratified breaths. The measured approach Jaskier employs is even more intense than their previous couplings, every little sensation is acute, every movement demanding to be felt.

“Fuck…” Geralt can no longer hold a tone, his voice having depleted to nothing but a low rasp, somewhere between the first time Jaskier entered him to now. Jaskier swallows around his own dry throat as he rolls his hips, fighting the urge to turn the pace frantic as he has done many times before. He is still afraid that something like this may never happen again.

“Jaskier…” Geralt’s eyes roll back as Jaskier hit’s that _spot_ , and Jaskier can’t take it anymore.

“I’m going to—”

Geralt whines, likely in protest, a sound Jaskier did not know he was capable of until recently, a sound that undoes Jaskier in its vulnerability. Jaskier’s orgasm breaks like a knot pulled free, and he spills, deep within Geralt.

Geralt is generous enough to tighten his passage, prolonging Jaskier’s release as he jerks a few more times, moaning into the night.

Geralt’s fingers scratch down his back, as the last aftershock fades away. It is silent but for their breaths, then,

“Hm.”

Jaskier chuckles, eyes falling shut. Ever demanding, his Witcher.

“You are too much, dear. I would be hard pressed to find a man who could last in the face of such passion.” Jaskier slips his exhausted cock from Geralt’s ass, ignoring the ache in the muscles of his thighs and abdomen. “But worry not, Geralt. I have you.”

Jaskier pushes Geralt’s shoulder towards the bedroll. Geralt lets himself be led onto his back, lips doing something that could be considered a smile.

Jaskier settles himself between Geralt’s spread legs, hands dragging through coarse hair of Geralt’s thighs. He lets his fingertips trace up the inside of them, thick muscles flexing underneath as he goes. Geralt gives an impatient growl, and Jaskier chuckles, but jumps his fingers to his entrance. He collects his own spend as it dribbles out of Geralt and onto his fingertips, the scent of it all overwhelmed with sweet, sweet chamomile.

Geralt’s body opens up to his four fingers with ease, and Geralt reacts like he’s been filled for the first time in his life, back arching, teeth digging in his lower lip, moaning deeply. His cock twitches against his abdominals, and Jaskier, never one to deny himself temptation, dips his head to lick up the thick length, to press his open mouth against as much of it as he can.

Geralt jerks his hips, and Jaskier realizes in all the days it’s been since that first night, Geralt had never felt his mouth, too distracted by the realization he could put things in his ass, things consisting primarily of parts of Jaskier. So Jaskier finds a second wind of strength and gives it his all, digging his tongue into the head to lick up the bitter flavor that is all Geralt, sucking him in deep as he presses on the other side with his fingers.

“F-fuck, Jaskier…” Geralt pants, and Jaskier internally celebrates at being able to push the man into a stutter. Jaskier decides to finish Geralt _hard_ , so he takes a fortifying breath and sucks him down. Down until his mouth is full, until the head nudges his throat, until he can’t breathe. Down as far as he can, the tip of his nose tickled just barely by wiry white hair.

Geralt’s desperate moans are music in their own right, and it takes nothing but a few bobs of his head in time with the four-fingered fucks from the inside and Geralt’s _done_ , bursting down Jaskier’s throat, a choked gasp marking the event.

Jaskier swallows; pulls off his cock with a wet noise without so much as a cough. His fingers come out next, taking with them a slurry of oil and semen. Geralt’s skin is soaked in sweat, muscles straining to contain his breaths as he comes down from his high.

“You’re a mess, Witcher,” Jaskier teases.

Geralt hums, a satisfied smile on his lips.

Geralt likes smelling of Jaskier, but Jaskier prefers the scent of flowers and herbs, so Geralt dutifully washes himself in the moonlight in a nearby river. He first evacuates what remains inside of him behind a rock, then pours water on his head to rinse the sweat from his hair and body.

Jaskier talks as he braids Geralt’s hair by the fading firelight. Geralt shuts his eyes and falls still, letting himself slip close to meditation. Lately, Jaskier’s braiding designs have been growing complex, taking longer to complete. Considering that it keeps his hair out of his face, and keeps Jaskier’s fingers scratching into his scalp, Geralt could care less what he does to it.

“Geralt.”

He’s enjoying the hands in his hair and his post-coital glow. Perhaps he can just… ignore the bard’s call and they can go to sleep, in peace and quiet.

“Geralt?”

When, Geralt thinks, has that _ever_ worked?

“Ge- _raaaaa—”_

Oh dear gods.

“What.” Geralt bites out.

Jaskier’s hands pause mid plait, and he tucks his chin over Geralt’s shoulder. “Have you been listening to me?”

“Yes,” Geralt intones with his eyes still closed.

“Really. What is that last thing I just said?”

“You said, ‘Have you been listening to me?’”

“ _Before_ that _.”_

“You said, ‘Geralt.’”

“Before _that.”_

“I don’t believe you ever said ‘before that’.”

“ _Geralt!”_

Geralt sighs. “Fine. That we need to go to Novigrad. Why the fuck do you want to go to Novigrad? I hate Novigrad.” Novigrad is loud and bright and grates on his senses. Many of the contracts involve the sewers, and he just got the scent of shit out of his clothes.

Jaskier leans back and continues to braid. He’s doing something that causes the braid to sit against his scalp, which requires an awful lot of tugging. “I know you hate Novigrad, but guess what?” Jaskier pulls his hair a bit tighter as he speaks, likely for emphasis, but it only succeeds in turning Geralt on. “My prized bottle of chamomile oil, which, need I remind you, was designed for minimal use on the skin as a smoothing cure and _not_ for use in heavy quantities as a lubricant for penetration, has run dry after a fortnight of you using me like the ivory baton I kept under my bed at the Academy.”

“An ivory baton, hm?” Geralt asks, humming. That is quite an image, Jaskier squirming on a sizeable stick of his own making, panting as he—

“I do not have strength for another round, Witcher, so you better be willing to handle that beast between your legs yourself should it arise. And—quit changing the subject. We’re going to Novigrad to replenish my supplies.”

“You were the one that changed the subject,” Geralt says petulantly.

“You were the one that was distracted by the thought of me penetrating myself with something even larger than you.”

Geralt pauses. Swallows. There’s not much larger than him. “That picture is not helping, bard.”

Jaskier sniggers, tugging his hair again.

“And neither is that,” Geralt says lowly.

“What, me pulling on your beautiful hair? I would be as blind as a bat to not see how much you enjoy this, Geralt. Oh what a lovely alliteration! Beautiful hair, blind as a bat, there must be something to that…” Jaskier starts to compose poetry about Geralt’s hair, and Geralt lets his voice wash over him again, slipping back to a quasi-meditative state.

When his hair is finished, Jaskier’s hands smooth over Geralt’s shoulders. “Also Geralt… and know that this request is offered with no compulsion or insistence on my part, but just as a way to inform—”

“What.”

“I have a sweet spot as well,” Jaskier says, kissing Geralt’s neck. “And I am not opposed to you feeling it sometime, should you have the urge to stick that beast of yours inside me.”

Geralt blinks, as Jaskier begins to put out the fire behind him.

After the fateful day when Geralt discovered his attraction to the bard and that he enjoys being fucked, their days were, well… actually their days were spent nearly the same as before: in training and fights, in taverns and song. The only difference? Geralt got fucked, in as many positions and as many times as they could manage.

Jaskier, for his part, seems incredibly eager to serve as Geralt’s own ivory baton. Geralt supposes there are benefits for him, such as being allowed to ride on Roach on mornings Geralt ached too much to consider it. But never had it crossed Geralt’s mind to offer him the same pleasure.

He doesn’t feel like he should be blamed for being excited: he had finally found a way to get off pleasurably in a fraction of the time it took him before, with a partner that genuinely gives a shit about him. Sex was fun.

But he may have been getting a little carried away.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says as they lay in their joined bedrolls under the moonlight.

“Yes, dear?”

“…I have been selfish.”

Jaskier rolls over to face him, frown marring his face. “I highly doubt that.”

“When you live as long as I have, you don’t have very many new experiences. And usually when I do, that experience is close to deadly.” Geralt sighs. “So I… may have been overzealous in my recent discovery about my preferences, and forgotten that you have needs as well.”

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier smiles. “Whoever is idiotic enough to believe you a monster should be made to eat his own foot. Firstly, understand that the last several nights where I served as your eager inspiration were the _furthest_ thing from a challenge. A test of my stamina, if anything, as I have become very, very good at delaying my own release for you.”

“Hm.”

“Trust me, dear Witcher,” Jaskier winks. “I know the gravity of this discovery quite well. I was barely of age when I took my first cock, and, though I am loathed to admit this, being that that cock belonged to that piss-ass Valdo Marx, it was _beyond_ fantastic. So just… realize that being able to be part of your journey of discovery has been nothing but a treat.”

“I will do more, though,” Geralt says. He’s been taking, more than giving, and he should attempt to even out the odds.

“Only if you want, Geralt!” Jaskier says airily. “Though if you choose to expand, I wouldn’t mind challenging my body to take that thing between your legs, and I have been told that my mouth is marvelous as well, even when it is full.”

“More so when it’s full,” Geralt murmurs.

“Thank you, and also, fuck you,” Jaskier says cheerfully. “Now sleep, my dear. You’ve worn me out.”

Geralt lets Jaskier settle into his chest, but he remains staring at the sky, contemplative.

He’s never had a romantic partner before. Yennefer comes close, but that’s a relationship of convenience. And sex with her certainly wasn’t the way it feels with Jaskier, though she had the benefit of being able to command him to orgasm at will.

No, Jaskier has always been there for him. And he makes him feel good. That’s probably signs of a deeper than normal relationship. So he can swallow down a few days at Novigrad for him. And he can figure out how to show his appreciation, too.

Besides, the idea of Jaskier squirming on his cock is a lovely one, Geralt decides. It wouldn’t be a chore to flip the script, though the longevity issue would have to be managed. There would be nothing stale nor rote about it, though, not like the others. Such a vibrant man, always moving and speaking and feeling. He’d be beautiful.

Beautiful. That’s a good adjective for him, Geralt thinks. Jaskier is beautiful.

Novigrad is as beautiful as Jaskier remembers.

As they walk over the bridge to the gate, Jaskier can’t hold back the smile as the city emerges before his eyes. Orange roofs over white walls, energy bustling on the street, flower boxes in windows and the scent of shit almost completely gone from the roads.

Geralt looks even more out of place here than anywhere else. Already his silver hair and black ensemble makes him stand out against the decidedly brighter city, drawing many eyes to him at once. Though Jaskier must admit he himself doesn’t look quite that well either. His doublet is streaked with dirt and grass, his shoes scuffed to high hell, and he’s pretty sure he’s ripped out some hair trying to get a twig out of its depth. Actually, in comparison, Geralt looks like he’s chiseled from ivory, a pale God in the midday sun, while Jaskier is just his...travelling...bard...

Jaskier isn’t under the impression that him and Geralt are the romance of the ages, in fact, he’s pretty sure the idea of romance is as foreign to Geralt as, say, wearing colors other than black, but Jaskier okay with that. He is. He’ll take what he can get, even if that is to be on the sidelines of his journey.

At least his tavern is just by the entrance, where he can get himself a bath and a change of clothes. He has an ulterior motive for bringing Geralt to Novigrad, of course. For one, he needs better clothes, a sturdier bag, some boots better suited for travel. And of course, oil.

But he is also excited to show Geralt the city of Novigrad, the city that he explored to high hell and back when he was but a student at Oxenfurt, bright eyed and, er, horny. There’s a reason he was gifted a brothel by a previous owner that passed on, which he redesigned into a tavern with the help of a few partners.

“This way, Witcher,” Jaskier says brightly. Geralt doesn’t even grunt, just lets him lead him to Rosemary and Thyme. He’s already scowling, well, perhaps, glowering is the right term, though those in Novigrad seem inclined to glower right back.

Geralt will warm up to Novigrad, Jaskier is sure of it. Or at least, to Rosemary and Thyme. It should be right up his alley: free food, free bath, free housing, all courtesy of the lovely Jaskier. And perhaps the peace will allow them to grow a little closer to one another.

Geralt’s constipated look has already melted off his face when they enter, and as Jaskier chatters on about the history of his tavern turned brothel, he collects them both a meal and a room to rest in for the evening.

“You really own this place?” Geralt says as they slip into a table. He has an eyebrow raised in an expression Jaskier has never seen before: respect.

Jaskier grins. “A gift from a friend. Tonight’s meal is on me, for thanks for the trip to Novigrad. _Which means,_ Geralt, that you should not get ale and stew! This is a place of refinement. You could have a roasted chicken, or fish, or ham!”

“Stew is fine.”

“Consider this an even bigger thank you then. For everything. For allowing me to travel with you and saving my life countless times.”

“I do that for everyone,” Geralt mutters.

“And I’m sure,” Jaskier says slowly, as if speaking to a child. “If they could, all those people would give their thanks. So take something for yourself for once.”

“Stew,” Geralt says.

Jaskier pouts. “Come _on_ Witcher. One thing. One _vain_ thing. It’s on the house! Enjoy! Treat yourself.”

Geralt hesitates.

A hesitation! That’s all Jaskier needs. He leans in close and says in a low voice, “If you could have one thing, Witcher, money aside, what would it be?”

Geralt eyes him, then sighs. “Evreluce.”

Jaskier grins, then shouts to the bar, “A bottle of Evreluce, please!”

Geralt growls. “A glass, not a bottle.”

“Ah, ah, ah, you should have specified. Too late now!” Jaskier grins. “Evreluce. I’ll have to remember that!”

Evreluce, as it turns out, is a fantastic way to loosen Geralt’s tongue. He’s not red faced or blushing or tripping over his words, but his smiles actually look like smiles and he actually answers Jaskier’s questions when he asks, which is a spectacular change of pace.

“The last time I had Evreluce,” Geralt says, a bottle and a half later, “I think, was when I ran into Eskel in a shithole on a mountain.”

“Eskel?” Jaskier says, voice wavering slightly. He’d picked the pate to eat, because he can, and is now working his way through a bun drenched in honey, because he feels that he deserves a little sweetness in his life after all the death and decay he’s been exposed to.

“Eskel,” Geralt rumbles, pouring the rest of the second bottle into his cup. “Another Witcher. He was like a brother,” Geralt says. “Our Paths cross on occasion. You’d like him.”

Jaskier grins. “Do all Witchers have paths that cross?”

“The Path is specific to the Witcher.”

“That clears everything up, thanks.”

“Why did you leave home, Jaskier?”

Jaskier blinks at the sudden topic change. Geralt’s eyes were laser focused on him, but he’s leaning back against his chair like he’s relaxed. Jaskier licks his lips, then takes a sip of Evreluce. “I wanted to see the world, and know all there is to know, and tell the world of all that I saw. People connect through song, you see. Through story. And I have the tools to facilitate such a connection.”

Geralt nods slowly. “Wanted?”

Leave it to Geralt to catch him on that one word.

“Well… I saw some of the world, and it was cruel.”

“It is. And yet...?”

Jaskier sighs. “I lived a coddled life, before. And it came through of my singing and stories, you see. Everything was rote and in order and not one peasant could relate to it, hence why most of my meals were the bread and rotten food that was thrown at me during my songs. I needed experience, inspiration, and lo and behold, you.”

“The life of a Witcher is dark and simple,” Geralt says, tilting his head to the side. “Not worthy of song, and certainly not representative of the people.”

“Which is why my tune has changed, Geralt,” Jaskier grins. “Because your life may be dark and simple, but _you,_ Geralt, you are so complex and light!”

Geralt scoffs at that, turning away from him.

Jaskier smiles. “Your passion and sweetness are so rare in the world I have found myself in, I find myself unable to find the right words to describe it. You will forgive me if I latch onto it and try not to let go.”

Geralt shakes his head, frowning. “Passion… and sweetness…,” he trails off quietly, eyes still turned away from Jaskier’s to look somewhere at the corner of the bar. “You are a fool, bard,” he nearly whispers.

Jaskier smiles, sticky sweet honey in the back of his throat. “I have been called much worse, my dear.”

That night Geralt sways slightly as Jaskier braids his hair. They don’t make love, but Geralt curls up a bit tighter when Jaskier plasters his body against his back. 

They wake up tangled in each other. Geralt emerges first, without a word, and they prepare for the day. There is a certain calmness this morning, no need to rush to travel or to find another contract. It’s peaceful, except Jaskier _has_ to say something when Geralt pulls on the same shirt he’s been wearing for the past month.

“No,” Geralt says, exiting the room.

Jaskier trails after him, locking the door behind them. “Geralt, I know how much you enjoy the contrast of your clothes and skin and hair, I’m sure it makes you _very_ scary to others, but just a little bit of color wouldn’t hurt! Just… an accent, Geralt—”

“Knowing you, you’d put me in something bright and ridiculous,” Geralt says.

“Of course not!” That’s a complete lie. “Okay, perhaps a bit, but just think, your amor with a simple stripe or pattern, a deep, _deep_ blue. Or an embroidered pattern? It would be barely noticeable—”

“The last time you dressed me, I was ridiculed in front of a court,” Geralt says, starting down the stairs to the tavern.

“Well I had to guess your proportions then, now I know them _quite_ a lot better, given how up close and personal I’ve gotten with your body.”

At the base of the staircase, Geralt turns to glare at him. Jaskier returns with his boldest smile.

“I’m a Witcher, not a silk merchant—"

“Of course, far be it from me to _change_ that, but you at least need more than one shirt at a given time—yes, yes, I know you had the last ones ruined, but I have a tailor here, great work, and they can get you duplicates of your original clothes, and designs—” Jaskier cuts himself off.

Because sitting at a table, right behind Geralt’s back, enjoying a breakfast, is Yennefer. She’s in a fur coat and impeccable makeup and a turtleneck dress with a cutout specifically designed to show off as much cleavage as possible. And it’s completely unfair that she is as beautiful as she is, while Jaskier looks like he took a bath in a mud pit three days ago and rinsed it off in a sewer. It’s not his fault he’s been wearing the same clothes for the past several days because his spare was ruined by the acidic saliva of some beast he got too close to, and that he was too tired last night to bathe!

“Come upstairs, Geralt,” Jaskier says quickly, “I think perhaps we should eat in our rooms.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow, but seems willing to follow. Maybe luck will finally side with the bard, and Geralt will somehow miss the other out-of-place person in the tavern, and Jaskier won’t have to deal with Geralt making eyes with the woman he _actually_ loves in front of the man he fucks—

When, Jaskier thinks, has that _ever_ worked?

Of course, Geralt turns around, as if by magic, and Jaskier sees his carefully laid plans fall to pieces.

“Yenn?” Geralt says, no, he _breathes,_ reverently, like she brings with her a fountain of knowledge, and the secret to eternal youth, which is something that Geralt doesn’t even _need_. Just like her.

But, his eyes had blown wide and his face had done that-that thing that it does when he sees her, and Jaskier _can’t_.

“I’m going to eat in the room,” Jaskier mutters.

Geralt pays Jaskier little mind as he leaves, instead focusing on the woman at the table across the tavern. Geralt would have been shocked if he didn’t run into her with how close they were to her new post at Cintra. She sips at her drink, looking over his shoulder for a moment, then turning her violet eyes on him.

“Geralt,” she says, unsurprised.

“How is—"

“Ciri is well,” Yennefer says softly.

Geralt relaxes his shoulders, exhaling a breath. Motherhood, even in the bastardized form she’s received it in, is a better look on her than he expected.

“She is what, nine now?”

“Yes. Though you would know, if you ever visit.”

“You know I can’t do that. Calanthe… this is the best thing I have,” Geralt says quietly. Just a few updates a year, all he asks from her. He doesn’t know when he started caring so much about the girl. He blames the Law of Surprise. He had given it his all to try and forget her, but she haunted his dreams, destiny punishing him for not listening to its calls.

“You know, when you wished for me to have a child, this is not what I expected,” Yennefer says.

Geralt huffs humorlessly. Geralt tried to remove Ciri from his care with the djinn, but once again his careless words had fucked things up, and now, Geralt and Yennefer _both_ found themselves with claims to the child.

On many occasions, Yennefer charms her way into the castle walls as some sort of tutor, to be able to see her, because destiny now calls to her like it does to him. Yennefer seems satisfied with the arrangement, though she wasn’t at first, especially as Calanthe knows not of her claim to the child.

“She asks of you sometimes,” Yennefer says.

“You tell her about me?”

“She’s not supposed to know about you, but she does,” Yennefer says with a not-so-innocent shrug.

“What do you say?”

Yennefer doesn’t smile. “That she’ll be with you soon,” she says. “And not because Calanthe is suddenly grown soft.”

Geralt slumps in his seat. “You think she’ll send her to me to escape the Nilfgaard.”

“The south is stirring, Geralt,” Yennefer says. “Be on your guard. Both of you,” Yennefer nods to the staircase.

She stands and makes to leave, but Geralt stands quickly with her.

“Wait, Yenn, can I ask you something personal?”

Yennefer raises an eyebrow that clearly says ‘you can try.’

“Personal for me.”

Yennefer’s other eyebrow raises, but she looks suitably interested. “What is it?”

“…How do you court a man?” Geralt asks.

Yennefer blinks slowly, dark eyes giving him a disbelieving look. “You want to… court… the bard?”

Geralt swallows. He’s not surprised by her incredulity. The match seems unlikely. And yet… “I think so.” Jaskier mentioned something about being ‘wooed’ and he should figure out what that is and how to do it.

Yennefer gives him an unreadable look, then starts to move towards the entrance. “You are a fascinating man, Geralt,” she says.

“I’m not a man.” Geralt keeps pace with her easily,

“Then the bard should be courting you,” Yennefer says, amused.

“That’s… not what I meant,” Geralt sighs. She rounds a couple of corners until they stand in a stone alley, shrouded between two buildings.

“I know little of the courting practices of standard men,” Yennefer says. “Just that many are flowery and false. But I can tell you this. Think about what he likes, and give it to him. Be truthful about your feelings, and all should be well.”

Geralt makes a face as Yennefer begins to form a portal, the dirt and water from ground sweeping up to form a perfect circle in the air.

“Is that all?”

“You don’t believe me? Am I not a romantic?” Yennefer asks.

Geralt snorts. “Are you?”

Yennefer laughs. “Goodbye, and good luck, Witcher,” she says, before disappearing into the air. Behind the portal, a beggar stands and stares at him, pointing a shaking finger.

Geralt raises his eyebrows at him and turns away, heading back inside in search of Jaskier, thoughts tumultuous.

It sounds like Yennefer believes something is coming, that he’ll need to claim his child as well soon. It weighs on him, the idea of having one day having a child. He was too young to think of such things when he was left for the Witchers in the first place, and when he came of age, that choice had been taken from him like many else. All Geralt can hope is that Yennefer is wrong, or that her being with Ciri would be enough for destiny.

Geralt has the sinking feeling that that won’t be the case.

Jaskier is holding his gifted dagger, staring at his spare shirt spread out on the bed, debating the merits of cutting a hole in the chest of it, when Geralt enters the room. Geralt looks mildly alarmed, so Jaskier sighs and tucks the dagger away.

“If you’re looking to use the room, I’m afraid you’ll have to find another,” Jaskier says stiffly.

Geralt looks so taken aback that Jaskier feels a pang of guilt that he nearly succumbs to. Gods is he weak.

“You no longer wish to stay with me?”

“Not if Yennefer is to be joining with you,” Jaskier says, purposeful in adding the word ‘with’. Fuck the boob window, the hair would cover any cleavage he had anyway.

“Yenn left,” Geralt says, looking genuinely confused.

“So you’ve settled for the next best thing,” Jaskier sniffs.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, frustrated. “It’s not like that. Anymore.”

“ _Suuuure_ ,” Jaskier’s pretty sure he’s hit six separate notes with how long he drags out that word. “You two have just _entwined your destinies_ , and now we run into her thrice a damn season, where you disappear to _speak with her_ for an hour! But I guess she can’t fuck you like I can, lacking in that department is she, so now you’re going to come back to me.” Jaskier can tell he’s lashing out, that his words don’t match Geralt’s behaviors, but his anger was skewing everything in his head, and he could only see red.

“The sex I had with her means nothing. Sex has never meant anything to me, not until I met you,” Geralt says.

Jaskier snorts. “I’ve heard better lines from the Countess de Stael’s thick tongued husband,” he snaps.

“It’s not a line, Jaskier, it’s the truth,” Geralt says plainly. “I only fucked her because she could pull orgasms from me with magic. It was convenient.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “So that’s what sex is to you? That’s what I am? Convenient?”

“No, I said _she_ was convenient. You’re…” Geralt’s voice trails off as he struggles to find a word.

Jaskier’s fury overcomes him, and he feels the urge to flee, lest he say what’s truly on his mind.

“I don’t have _time_ for this Geralt. If you’re just looking for another fuck, or weird magical orgasm, or, or, whatever you’re into, fine, but don’t—” Don’t what, string him along? Jaskier’s the one stringing _himself_ along, all of his pain is his own damn fault. He got invested, couldn’t see things as they were. He’s the one that trails Geralt on his journeys even after Geralt tells him not to. He’s the one that Geralt tries to leave in the mornings, he’s the one that gets in the way of fights. Geralt wouldn’t miss him if he left, not as much as Jaskier would miss Geralt.

Geralt had Yennefer. Jaskier was just… convenient.

“Oh just fuck yourself, for once. I’ll be back before dark,” Jaskier says, and he storms from the room, walking around the frozen Witcher.

Geralt, once again, regrets how bad he is with words. 

Jaskier did not know of Geralt and Yennefer’s arrangement, and is clearly jealous of Geralt’s attention to Yenn. Geralt should have just told him what he really thinks, but his mind was still muddled with Yenn’s visit and news over his child surprise.

Geralt figures now, more than ever, he needs to figure out this courting thing. 

Geralt sits on the bed, staring at his hands, thinking about what Yenn said: buy him things he likes, and be truthful. He’s already fucked up the latter, but the former seems possible.

Jaskier likes music, expensive clothes, quality foods and drink, bright colors, exotic smells, and baths. Novigrad will have all of that, but then, the problem becomes money. Somehow, the breadwinner between the two of them has become Jaskier. Even the increase in pay for his services has to do with Jaskier’s documentation of Geralt’s battles, as embellished as they are. Geralt only has enough to survive on his own in his own money pouch, not enough to spend on the frivolous shit Jaskier likes.

But. Jaskier is important to him, and Geralt needs to prove it. And it feels wrong to use the money Jaskier’s gifted to him to buy him things. Though, why doesn’t Jaskier buy things for himself with his extra money? He seems to only buy cheap food on their travels, though, that’s because he’s buying food for Geralt now, who eats more than a human, but tastes less, so expensive food wouldn’t make sense. And he also hasn’t spent any money on bath oils or perfumes recently, though he was responsible for the purchase of many ingredients Geralt needed for potions, and he let Geralt drain his prized skin oil because he wanted to fuck so much. And he constantly complains about getting his clothes dirty and needing new ones, though this morning they argued over Jaskier wanting to buy a new shirt…

For Geralt.

“Hm,” Geralt says, realizing.

He will respect Jaskier’s wishes and give him space for the day, giving him time to calm down. For now, he needs to head to the market and somehow barter his way into enough gifts for Jaskier to show both his apology and his feelings.

He arms himself accordingly, and leaves with his bag and the rest of his money.

But when he enters the main square, he is immediately overwhelmed.

People are yelling from the stalls, pushing in front of his face to peddle their wares. The streets are crowded with people in the brightest clothes Geralt’s ever seen, all shouting over one another and jostling and pressing him with no regard to his sneer. In fact, many sneer back, perhaps itching for a brawl, before they catch sight of Geralt’s eyes and think again.

His expanded senses are quick to go haywire, detecting danger where there is none, and he feels himself fall into a heightened state like he might do when he’s facing a losing battle, flooding him with frantic energy that has no outlet.

He pushes through the crowd blindly, snarling at anyone that stands in his way, until he finds himself in one of Novigrad’s many alleys, gratefully empty and shaded.

He takes careful, meditative breaths, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes, running through his calming exercises as if he’s steeling himself for battle. It’s ridiculous that he needs this, that being able to walk down a fucking street is somehow too much. But he can get Jaskier what he wants. Pretty things, expensive things. Things that aren’t… Geralt.

Why is the bard with him, again?

Geralt shakes his head, and focuses. He needs to find things that the bard will like, _show_ him what his words can’t seem to tell him.

Fortifying himself, Geralt heads back into the fray.

Jaskier buys an hour of time with a working woman and a bottle of Est Est.

“I do this every fucking time,” he says, pacing angrily about the room. “I-I-I go and fall in love with people, and they just _cast_ me _aside_ again and again.” He swigs the bottle angrily, then wipes his lips with his sleeve. The doublet is already ruined, might as well add to it at this point.

“That sounds rough,” the prostitute says, lying on the bed and working her nails with a small file.

“He’s so… oh but he’s so great, my dear sweet Witcher,” Jaskier sighs, slumping into a chair. “So strong and-and-and _passionate_ , and full of so much mystery! The perfect story! Oh to just be able to dig under that rough exterior, if only he were to let me in. But no. He must… He has to go with _Yennefer._ Who is perfect, with her, her, _boob window,_ and has captured his heart in a way I could never hope to.”

“Damn,” she says, beginning to braid her hair. “That sounds rough.”

“But he has discovered that I have a dick, and that I know how to use it, and I, _stupidly,_ decided to-to-to let him use it! But I am the one to be used. That. That’s a poem. Maeve, would that make a good poem?”

“That sounds r—uh. I mean. Sure,” she says.

“A quill! I need a quill.” Jaskier finds one, then scrawls out something on the parchment in front of him. “I’m out of Est Est. Who names— _hiccup_ —who named this thing Est Est?”

“Dunno,” she says.

“More Est Est,” Jaskier says drunkenly. “Get me more, if you please Maeve. I’m going to write him a song.”

Maeve shrugs and jumps off the bed to go search for more wine, as Jaskier brandishes his quill.

It takes him most of the day, and all of his strength, but he returns to Rosemary and Thyme with three coppers to his name and a haul of shit for Jaskier.

He planned to wait in their room for Jaskier’s return, give him his gifts, explain his situation with Yen, confess his feelings, then fuck him, but all that goes out the window the second he sees the bard. He’s writing vigorously on a slip of paper, still wearing the same clothes from yesterday, and seeing him suddenly makes Geralt feel exhausted. All he wants is to close his eyes and have Jaskier comb his fingers through his hair.

But it’s not about him right now.

“Jaskier.”

“What, Witcher,” Jaskier mumbles.

Geralt, worn thin from too many people and the fact he’s spent all his money on nothing his Witcher mind considers useful, doesn’t have time for Jaskier’s mood. So he pulls the sheet from under Jaskier’s hand, and slams down a bottle so hard, it causes Jaskier to jump.

“My _work_! There is no need to be so…” Jaskier finally observes the bottle in front of him, eyes wide. “Geralt!” He grabs the bottle in his hands, cradling it like a child. “ _How_ did you find Fiorano? It’s been nearly impossible to locate at a decent price after the Nilfgaard started their inquisition!”

It’s true. The seller demanded nearly fifty crowns for the bottle, citing that same reason. But Jaskier had said, many times in their travels, that Fiorano was the best wine he had ever tasted. Something about perfectly aged fruit, Geralt doesn’t know. He just knows that Jaskier likes it.

So he stole it.

Geralt stole the wine.

Jaskier looks at him with wide eyes. “How did you know Fiorano is my favorite?”

“You’ve said it at least hundred times,” Geralt says gruffly, pulling out several more bottles of the same wine from his bag to place on the table in front of him. When it comes to looting, in for a copper, in for a crown. “One of these is mine, by the way. I also got you this.”

Geralt digs further into his bag to reveal a brown strap, a few inches wide and ending in short leather ties on each end. It was embroidered with bright yellow flowers.

“What is this? Are those… buttercups?” Jaskier asks quietly, tracing his fingertips over the stitching curiously.

“The girl in the stall said they were dandelions,” Geralt says. She was young and poor looking, which may have been a ploy but tugged his heart-strings, nonetheless. He spent most of his coin there. “It’s a strap to carry your lute. Also, here.”

Geralt places more bottles on the table, then recites them from memory. “Chamomile oil. Rosehip oil. Oil from something called a coconut,” Geralt says. “All things good for skin.” He’d been at his wits end when he got to the oil stall, and must have been so frightening to look at that he barely had to negotiate a thing before the seller was thrusting the bottles in his hand.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, fingering the bottles. “I don’t know what to say…”

“The last thing. Lubrication.” Geralt got this at a much lower rate than offered, at the expense of his own pride. He spun a tale of his wife being unable to create enough of her own arousal in the face of his ugliness, and that he wished to find something to ease the way, but halfway through the story he ‘cracked’, admitted to the lie, and said his wife had left him months ago for his right hand and the chafe had become unbearable. The look of pity he was given after his story was beyond humiliating, but he got many bottles of the miracle cream for near free.

“Lubrication?” Jaskier blinks.

“For you and me. Because you are the only one I want to fuck. Because I think you’re beautiful.”

Jaskier’s eyes snap to Geralt’s, and Geralt grins. Finally got the bard speechless.

“Perhaps there’s a better way to do this. I don’t know, nor do I care,” Geralt says. “But I got you things that you like because I like you, and only you.”

Jaskier looks at Geralt with unbridled hope, and Geralt realizes how badly he must have been fucking things up for him to make such an expression in the face of Geralt’s confession.

“I do. Care for you, Jaskier,” Geralt continues. “I don’t say it enough. And I’m sorry.”

"Geralt, my dear, dear Geralt," Jaskier says. "I know how much it must of cost you to buy me these things. And I am grateful, but understand, I care for you as well. You keep me safe and warm, you serve as my inspiration, you teach me the ways of the land. That means everything to me," Jaskier smiles. "I know you are meaning to apologize. Know that you are forgiven. Know that the knowledge that you care about me is all I ever really ask for."

Geralt leans over and kisses him then, because he's run out of words again. Jaskier seems to get it anyway, if the smile on his lips is anything to go by.

Jaskier grabs the lute strap again in hand, eyeing it curiously. “But what of Yennefer?”

Geralt sighs and sits down at the chair in front of him, the chair creaking under his weight. “It’s not like that. The reason she wanted the djinn was not because she wanted power, but because she wanted a child. I had a child I didn’t want, so I tried to give her to Yennefer. Instead, the djinn linked Yenn’s destiny with hers, while keeping mine with hers as well, so now we are both linked with one another.”

Jaskier drums his fingers on the table. “So… there really is nothing between you and her?”

“A kinship, that’s all. Trust me, I vastly prefer it when you fuck me over instead of destiny,” Geralt says.

Jaskier laughs. "As do I. You seem tired Geralt. Are you alright?"

“It has been a taxing day.”

Jaskier’s fingertips traces over the lute strap fondly. “Taxing? How so?”

Geralt slumps into his chair and pulls one of the bottles of Fiorano to him. He doesn’t even bother with a glass as he drinks it. It’s not bad, actually.

Jaskier makes a pained noise as Geralt chugs a third of it at once. He drops the bottle back on the table and sighs.

“Novigrad is too much,” Geralt finally says.

Jaskier furrows a brow, then drops the strap and leans his cup toward Geralt, beckoning for him to pour him some. “Were you bothered today? I would be surprised if you were. Novigrad isn’t one of those ‘middle of nowhere’ places that curse anyone more different than a man with red hair. A werewolf could probably prowl through town and people wouldn’t look twice.”

“Lots of things prowl through town that you believe are human,” Geralt mutters. “No, nothing like that. It’s too… _loud_.” Geralt’s not sure how to explain this, the way his senses tend to overwhelm, but he’s set on telling the truth, so he will try. “The sounds of so many people yelling grate on my senses. It’s too bright, as well. The colors people wear, the way the sun hits the white stone of the ground, all of it. I felt like I was preparing to head into battle every moment I had to walk through that Godforsaken market.” Geralt growls. “Energy that is usually released in battle was thrumming through my body, and there was nothing I could do about it.”

With every word, Jaskier grows more worried. Geralt almost regrets saying anything, having put that expression on his face. “I’m sorry, Geralt.”

“It’s fine,” Geralt grunts, working on the wine bottle again.

“It is not! It was _my_ insistence that brought us here, and I left you while you were destroying yourself trying to get things for me, and I’m sorry,” Jaskier says sincerely.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s nothing meditation can’t fix,” Geralt mutters. “I’d just rather not be outside right now, or even downstairs.”

Jaskier finishes his wine. “How about a bath?”

“I’d rather not deal with a public bath either,” Geralt says.

“How about a _private_ bath?” Jaskier grins.

“A private bath?”

“Rosemary and Thyme was a gift from a fanatic of my music. I own this tavern, but it used to be a brothel, including a bath that is no longer open for the public,” Jaskier says. “And I think the best way to get you to relax, is to use this—” Jaskier grabs the chamomile bottle,”—and this—” Jaskier grabs the bottle of lubricating cream, “and see if we can find a way to get you out of your head.”

Geralt, for the first time today, grins. “I like the way you think, bard.”

The bathtub is rather luxurious, Geralt must admit. The tub was inset into the ground, similar to the one in the house of the Mayor of Rinde, and was surrounded by white tile. Whoever had done up the room had left candles and incense burning, giving it a pleasant air. When Geralt found the water lukewarm, Jaskier admitted to planning on a bath and forgetting about it earlier, but Geralt had signed for Igni and returned it to its heat. Jaskier had smiled, the rich full one that Geralt truly likes, and strips and submerges himself.

The bard lets out a lewd moan when he slips in the water, all the way to his nose. He closes his eyes and relaxes himself, letting his legs fall open wide. Geralt follows suit at the other end, resting his head against the wall of the bath.

Jaskier does a lot for him, and he doesn’t ask for much in return. And that… Geralt doesn’t deserve that. Especially not after how hard Geralt had tried to push him away. Firmly, Geralt believes he should be here, in Novigrad, eating and drinking and playing songs for the people. He would be safe here.

But Jaskier doesn’t want safe. He wants Geralt. And Geralt doesn’t know why. But he does know that he’d burn the entire world to keep him alive and well.

“Come here,” Geralt says when he meets Jaskier’s eye across the tub. Jaskier smiles and leans over. Geralt examines him for a moment, then leans in to give him a kiss.

He still has one more gift to give.

Each time their lips met, it’s just as satisfying, just as exciting, just as addicting as the last. Jaskier tries to respond, to escalate the motion, but Geralt doesn’t let him. He forces them into a series of gentle, lingering kisses, purposefully setting the pace for this evening.

He pulls back for a moment, not-at-all surreptitiously taking in his scent, buried underneath soap and incense, memorizing it. It was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever smelled.

Jaskier’s expression is confused, Geralt’s own name exhaling from his lips in question. Perhaps Geralt has never scented him like this before. Geralt lifts the man from the tub and lays him on the soft ground next to him, heaving himself out of the water to tower over him.

Geralt takes the time to inhale again, placing his nose against his neck, and his eyes flutter shut. Jaskier doesn’t smell any better or worse than anything else, and yet, it smells good. Smells like _his_. When he finally exhales, the scent of Jaskier burning in the back of his throat, he opens his eyes and locks them with the bard’s.

“I’m going to take you apart,” Geralt says.

Geralt meets Jaskier’s lips again, brasher now, feeling high on his scent and thrumming with energy. He licks into Jaskier on another pass, giving Jaskier no room to maneuver on his own as he searches for a taste to match that scent. His hands have their own mind, and are determined to map out every bend and crease in the other man, to catalogue every twitch, every sensitive piece of skin.

He can feel the moment where Jaskier, cautiously, lets go, when the movement of his lips becomes passive to Geralt’s claim. Geralt grunts in approval, his hands scratching red lines through the hair on Jaskier’s chest.

Jaskier arches slightly into this motion, lips falling off Geralt’s to moan. Geralt takes the invitation his neck offers, laving over his pulse point, ears picking up the quick step of his heart, the scent of his blood that keeps Jaskier alive, keeps him _here_ for Geralt to take.

Jaskier jerks when he bites, whole body tensing, long firm legs coming to wrap around Geralt’s hips and lock him in place in a claim of his own. Jaskier’s hands pound his back, trying to push him down, and so he goes, resting his whole self over Jaskier. He’s heavy, but Jaskier takes it.

Pressed together from chest to groin, Jaskier’s arousal begins to assert itself firmly between their bodies. Geralt quickly slides down, letting Jaskier’s cock press against his abdominals as he hides the comparative softness of his own.

Geralt masks the movement with kisses down Jaskier’s arm, feeling Jaskier’s eyes on the top of his head as he does. He keeps them light, trying and succeeding in leaving behind goosebumps. Geralt licks the thin crease of his elbow with the tip of his tongue, and Jaskier gasps beautifully in response. Geralt sucks the skin gently, then continues, moving to dig his teeth in at the skin of his wrist lightly, then to suck the tip of his thumb into his mouth, pressing the nail with his teeth.

“Oh—that’s…” Jaskier breathes.

Geralt hums and moves to the other side of Jaskier’s body, copying the movements. Jaskier responds the most when he meets his elbow, so Geralt spends a little more time there than on the other side, working the skin red.

By the time he’s biting the man’s other thumb, Jaskier is flushed and hard, looking down at Geralt, amazed.

“Has no one ever taken their time with you before?” Geralt asks as he slides back further, toes dragging against the surface of the water, Jaskier’s legs falling back down to the tile floor. He is careful to keep his cock hidden, though it’s starting to respond, struggling slowly to rise despite the fact Geralt’s never been more aroused by someone in his life.

“Not like this,” Jaskier gasps out.

“Their loss,” Geralt comments. Who wouldn’t look at this man and think about pulling him apart? If a man has a spot inside of him like a woman, it should make sense that other parts of their body have similar sensitivities, so why wouldn’t Geralt try to find them all.

With that, Geralt ignores Jaskier’s cock entirely, instead using his hands to lift Jaskier’s leg up straight, bending at the knee in the air. He begins to kiss the skin on the inside of his thigh, following it with his hands.

“Geralt…” Jaskier moans. He’s tossed his head back, clearly enjoying himself as Geralt caresses the surprisingly firm muscles of his legs. His enjoyment rushes Geralt with approval, making his cock twitch between his own thighs.

When his lips meet the back of Jaskier’s knee, Jaskier jerks in surprise, and Geralt chuckles as he holds him down.

“How is it,” Jaskier pants, “That I’ve been living in my own body my whole life, and only now I am discovering that the back of my knees can feel like that.”

Geralt responds by sucking a mark into the skin, biting when it becomes red, and Jaskier whines and his leg tenses, breaths coming out in bursts. When he feels Jaskier has had enough, he starts over on the other leg, bolstered by Jaskier’s whine and the toss of his head to the other side.

The women he has bedded in the past have had similar discoveries such as this, Geralt muses as he works Jaskier up further. They were unaware that pleasure could brew from places other than the genitals. Some had even had their first ever orgasm, both surprising and sad, especially when one of them was four kids deep and well into her 40th winter. He’s determined to help Jaskier discover everything his body can offer him.

With both of Jaskier’s legs in his hands, he spreads them in the air, presenting him shamelessly to Geralt’s eyes. His deep red cock is standing tall amongst a sea of soft hair that trails down somewhere dark between his legs. His skin is a delightful shade of pink across his whole body, flush deepening with every sweep of Geralt’s gaze.

Geralt decides to continue in the vein of ‘sticking with what he knows’ and, dropping Jaskier’s legs, he trails his fingers up lightly up the length of Jaskier’s cock, teasing the man.

“You’re _killing_ me,” Jaskier moans, watching Geralt’s exploration with lidded eyes. “I’m going to die, here, on the floor of my own bathroom, with a man between my legs.”

“What a way to go,” Geralt rumbles, then he grips Jaskier cock. A familiar weight—he’s done at least this before—and he uses his other one to cradle his balls.

“Fuck, Geralt, move your hand like you damn well mean it,” Jaskier whines.

Geralt ignores him, stroking very slowly, squeezing clear beads of wetness from the tip when they arise. “You are already so worked up…”

“Because you have decided you need to touch and kiss my entire body,” Jaskier whines. “ _Except_ my cock and ass!”

“Are you complaining?”

“Yes. No! I don’t know, fuck Geralt, I feel like you have lit my skin on fire, and we haven’t even begun the process of penetration.”

Geralt is relieved his cock is still hidden from view. While his statement has him roaring in approval, his slow cock is only half way on board.

“I want to remember this,” Geralt says simply. Obligingly though, he increases his speed.

“G-Geralt… mmm…” Jaskier gets suitably distracted by his own pleasure. On the tip of his cock, Geralt has noticed, is a particular spot that causes Jaskier to truly spasm, so he collects as much wetness as he can—easy with the way Jaskier is leaking—and coats his hand.

Using his other hand to hold down Jaskier’s foreskin, he puts the wet head between his thumb and strokes _fast,_ thumb pressing against that spot over and over and over.

Jaskier whines, then he gasps when he realizes Geralt’s not planning on stopping, and rapidly begins to fall apart. Geralt can’t get enough of the view. It’s as if he’s lost control of his own movements, body writhing against the floor, all it centered around Geralt’s abuse of his cockhead. Nonsense spills from his mouth between cries, things that could be his name, could be swears, could be pleas. Whatever it is, it’s caused by Geralt, meticulously working over that sensitive spot, the fingertips of his left hand playing with his balls as his palm grips the base.

“G-g-g… I’m…!”

“Hm.” Geralt releases his cockhead and clamps his other hand down on his balls, holding firm.

“Ger— _fuck, f-fuck, fuck!”_ Jaskier swears loudly. He tries to jerk his hips, to find stimulation again, but to no avail—his path to orgasm had been thrown off, and he’s stuck with feeling the tremors echo through his body, dry. Geralt has Jaskier as his mercy.

When the shudders stop, Jaskier looks at Geralt with a nearly feral rage in his eyes. “What the _fuck_ , Geralt? I was _right there—”_

“And you will be, again,” Geralt says evenly. “This will make you last longer.” It’s something he’s done with women as well, for both of their sakes, though never had it had quite this effect on Geralt. Something about knowing that Jaskier’s orgasm is in his hands…

Jaskier growls. “I can last plenty long enough!”

“Not with a Witcher,” The display of Jaskier approaching the edge but unable to go over it has pushed him to full hardness, and he repositions himself onto his knees and towers over the bard, letting his cock hang between the two of them.

“You ass—” Jaskier’s anger begins to sputter as he catches sight of it, and Geralt feels a swell of pride when Jaskier swallows hard, lust beginning to overpower the scent of anger. “You massive… cock…” He trails off.

Geralt slides his cock against Jaskier’s, sighing as it finally makes contact with the other man. “I should be offended.”

“You should. I think.”

“If you are thinking, then I am not doing this well enough,” Geralt says. He pulls away from Jaskier and searches the bath for a bottle of lubrication.

He dips his fingers inside, and positions a single finger at Jaskier’s hole. “Tell me if I’m doing it right.”

“You aren’t doing it right, because it’s not _in me_ , dear Witcher,” Jaskier responds.

Geralt snorts and presses in, Jaskier sighing as he does.

“Do you really take much longer to finish than a man?” Jaskier asks curiously as Geralt pumps. He’s incredibly hot on the inside, muscles clamping and releasing around Geralt’s finger. It’s an… intimate experience.

“Yes,” Geralt says. “How much so, I am unsure, but enough that my partners run the risk of growing bored or overwhelmed.”

“Neither of those are emotions I am capable of,” Jaskier hums.

“Remarkable, given your capacity for emotion.”

“I’m taking that as a compliment.”

“If that’s what you prefer.”

“I mean,” Jaskier plows on as Geralt moves to the second finger. Jaskier doesn’t seem to even notice the difference, other than a stuttered breath. “To think, one would look at that thing between your legs and grow _bored_ with it.”

Geralt snorts, deciding to add a third finger given Jaskier’s lack of reaction. “Regarding my length, it’s not quite the boon you may think. Many women prefer not to have the back of their passage… hammered.” He’d actually learned that from the whores, their insides sometimes aching from the acts of overzealous, inexperienced men. He can’t stand their pain, and orders them to speak plainly about any hurts they have before he begins. “Furthermore, cunts loosen to accommodate my width, making the stretch not quite as novel as they had hoped.”

“Geralt, listen well,” the bard says, looking at him with defiant eyes. “First, my ass has _no_ such limit, as, need I remind you, this will _not_ be the longest thing that’s ever been up there.”

“That is true, I suppose,” Geralt says.

“And second, my asshole is tighter than a cunt.”

Geralt gives him a predatory look, slipping his fingers from Jaskier’s body. “Not when I’m through with it.”

Using his hand, he positions the head of his cock against the tight hole presented to him, and slowly he presses in.

Let it be written on the gravestone of Julian Alfred Pankratz, under the many numerous accolades he will have no doubt achieved, that he once took the cock of Geralt the Witcher and lived to tell the tale.

Geralt bends his knees into his chest and penetrates Jaskier with the patience and slowness of his foreplay, a far cry from the frantic coupling Jaskier had gotten used to with the man. Already, Jaskier was shaking out of his skin, burning as Geralt had marked him all over his body. Now he’s marking the inside of him as well, cock spreading his ass open wide and deep.

He should be embarrassed by how much he moans, how much he _is_ moaning when he feels Geralt’s balls against his ass. Geralt has his eyes shut and lips parted, like he’s savoring a particularly good sip of wine.

“Geralt,” Jaskier stutters. “Geralt. I-I’m so full.”

“You _are_ tight, bard,” Geralt says. He’s hardly out of breath, but his eyes are filled with fire as he takes in Jaskier’s body with quick, catlike glances, something possessive blooming behind them every time he traces over one the marks he’s left on Jaskier’s skin.

He can’t believe he was unable to see it before, but it must be true that Geralt thinks him _beautiful,_ that word that Geralt struggled to say but not to mean. Never had Jaskier felt so possessed by someone before; never had he been so _willing_ to _be_ possessed by someone before. And Geralt, so thick and long and pulsing inside of him is clearly possessing him.

“Move, my dear,” Jaskier whispers.

Geralt’s pupils widen and he begins to move. Jaskier groans as he feels every inch of the Witcher’s cock pull from his body and push back in, Geralt leaning over his legs and bending Jaskier to the limit.

“You feel so fucking good, Geralt,” Jaskier says. “God I haven’t been full in so long…”

Geralt growls and thrusts in quicker, making Jaskier yelp. “You’re only going to be full of me from now on.”

Jaskier grins through a moan that stutters as Geralt fucks in harder. “Possessive, a-are we dear Witcher?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Geralt groans, bending him far enough to rest his arm on either side of Jaskier’s head. His legs have crowded him in, and he feels so very confined between Geralt and the floor.

And in this position, Geralt rubs his sweet spot, and Jaskier’s reply breaks off into a sob, eyes falling shut. Geralt’s moving fast now, looking like a beast above Jaskier. His eyes are wild and his lips are snarling, and Jaskier whines, everything burning under his onslaught.

“Your c-cock is a fucking _dream,_ Geralt,” Jaskier chokes out between thrusts.

Geralt just bares his teeth, wrapping his hands underneath Jaskier’s head, balls slapping his ass.

“Fuck, you’re so deep—" Jaskier whines. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” He can feel the stirrings of an orgasm, and, without thinking, Jaskier reaches between their bodies, trying to find his cock.

Geralt growls and bats his hand away, replacing him with his own, and he gives him a wicked smirk. He strokes vigorously, fast and hard, and Jaskier cries out, “Geralt, I’m close—”

“I’m nowhere near done,” Geralt threatens, but he doesn’t stop jacking Jaskier off.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whines, “please…”

“If you finish, I pull out,” Geralt says, without stopping his speed.

“Fuck, dammit.” Jaskier can barely think right now, but knows that Geralt wants him to say it, wants him to tell him to stop him from releasing.

“It’s… it’s okay Jaskier,” Geralt says after a moment, slowing. “I can get you off and finish on my own.”

Jaskier looks at Geralt with his most defiant expression, he knows he’s not going to let that happen. “No. No I can hold on—!”

“Are you sure?” How can Geralt sound so _calm_?

“I am!” Jaskier cries. “Fuck, Witcher, I’m close, I’m, s-stop me! _Now!”_

Jaskier cries out hoarsely as Geralt releases his hand and clamps down on his balls, not even missing a beat with his thrusts. Pressure builds until he’s ready to burst, but with the firm press of Geralt’s hand, and the lack of stimulation, there’s _nowhere for it to go._ He tries to escape, to squirm from Geralt’s grasp, but Geralt has him held down so tight he can’t move. He sobs and shakes, but there is no give under Geralt’s body.

The pressure abates, and Jaskier whines and curses, his whole body shaking as he’s denied, yet again. Geralt growls in approval, then pulls out.

“You _a-asshole_. You’re getting off on this,” Jaskier says weakly.

Geralt chuckles darkly. Before Jaskier can blink, he’s been flipped flat on his stomach, cock jolting against the cold floor, with Geralt’s full weight on his back.

Geralt lifts Jaskier’s hips just enough to fuck in again, much harsher than his earlier, slower ministrations, but Jaskier _loves_ it, shouting as he fucks into his hole, begs for him to move faster, fuck _harder_. His cock is deeper now, the stretch now a burn, the pleasure and pain fizzling into one. There’s no room for Jaskier to move. Geralt has him pressed between his body and the floor, and Jaskier has no choice but to _take_ it _._

Geralt’s hips move faster than a normal man can maintain for this long a time, pulling out to the tip and in to the base, splitting him in two, fucking him so steady he could probably sing a song to the beat, if only he had control over his voice.

It doesn’t help that Geralt has wrapped a hand around his neck, tilting it back and holding on loosely, as Jaskier spirals out of control beneath him. The other is wrapped around his balls, prepared to squeeze if Jaskier’s wild breaths get too close to orgasm, which Jaskier doesn’t have the presence of mind to protest.

Because coming would mean stopping this—this—this _sweet torture_ , where every thrust hits just right, every slap of hips against hips aches more than the previous one, every brush of his cock against the cold ground is like a stab in the sharp contrast.

And Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever been fucked for this _long_ before either, with this much precision and skill and focus just on him. He still keeps trying to escape, but Geralt won’t _let_ him, and that is the most sexy, frustrating, amazing thing about it all because Jaskier just _has_ to _take it._ Jaskier cries into the bathroom floor, and it echoes throughout the bathroom.

Geralt is moaning himself, his nose buried in Jaskier’s hair, though Jaskier can barely hear it over his own babbling voice, can barely hear anything as his mind is too busy trying to handle the ‘too much’ of it all, but he can _feel_ it, the near constant rumble against his back, as Geralt growls his approval into Jaskier’s neck.

That rumble is the only thing that ties Jaskier to this world, feeling as if Geralt lifted so much as an inch off him, he’d float away into the sky and disappear forever.

Geralt’s mouth finds his neck again, and he bites down, and Jaskier feels his need arise again, and something must come across in his voice, his voice that his no longer his own, because Geralt’s hand starts to work his cock, and Jaskier is close to _tears_ with how raw it feels, his massive, calloused hands working the slick, oversensitive skin.

“Please…” He gasps, unsure what he’s begging for. But Geralt seems to know, seems to know Jaskier is close to done because he stops and squeezes his hand again, the one around his balls, though Jaskier wouldn’t mind if he did the one around his neck, and Jaskier cries and jerks uselessly under Geralt’s body, something hoarse and non-human coming out of his mouth as his body attempts, and fails, to force out another orgasm.

It’s painful, and when the pressure finally abates, failing again to bring Jaskier over the edge, tears begin to roll down his face, sobs choking from his chest.

Somehow, despite all of his faculties being burned to shreds, he can sense Geralt’s hesitation, and he knows that Geralt will slow down and asking him if he’s okay, will perhaps stop and finish on his own, and Jaskier can’t _bear_ that idea, so he stutters out, between sobs,

“D-d-don’t fucking… stop…”

Geralt kisses Jaskier’s neck, and continues, fear assuaged.

Still, Geralt removes his hand from Jaskier’s balls, letting his cock slide into the puddle of wetness it’s made on the floor. He doesn’t know if Jaskier can handle another denial, and vows to pull out the first time one of them comes. But he’s handled these three so well, Geralt thinks he himself might finish early.

Jaskier is so fucking _beautiful_ right now, writhing underneath him in unadulterated pleasure, pleasure caused by Geralt’s own hand. It’s more intoxicating than Evreluce when he slams into his wet heat over and over, knowing he’s spilling drops of himself inside of Jaskier, so deep he’d smell of him for weeks.

His hand pulses around Jaskier’s throat, too far gone _not_ to dig his nose into Jaskier’s neck, and he groans long and low as the scent settles deep in his lungs.

That scent is _his_.

And then, Geralt finds himself close.

“Jaskier,” Geralt groans.

He’s trying to warn him but unable to get more words out, hips pumping even faster, less even. But Jaskier seems to get it, to understand it’s the beginning of the end, and responds in the most unexpected way possible.

“Please,” he whispers between breaths.

Geralt roars, reaches down to grab both Jaskier’s hips in his hands, and _lets go,_ pounding into that tight hole, driven by his need to _finish,_ to _mark,_ to paint the inside of Jaskier so well it remains for an eternity, to—

“Jaskier!” Geralt shouts, and it all snaps, and he sobs in relief, balls tightening as he pumps load after load into the other man. It seems to go on for ages, hips jerking against Jaskier’s pelvis.

He’s drained when he’s done, muscles loose and damp with sweat. The only sound in the room is both of their pants, layered with Jaskier’s occasional whine. Geralt carefully pulls himself out, then rolls the other man over. Jaskier moves like a ragdoll, and makes a positively indecent sight. He’s soaked in his own sweat, his abdomen dripping in the clear liquid pouring from his cock, body red and chest heaving.

And he’s grinning, eyes shut. Geralt can’t stop the laugh that escapes him, unaltered and free, because _of course_ he’s smiling.

With all his leftover strength, Geralt takes the base of Jaskier’s cock in one hand, and the head in another, and jerks, fast.

Jaskier cries out, voice breaking across several pitches, and he curls in on himself, knees coming in and chest rolling up as Geralt works him just right.

And then he’s coming, releasing with a simple, broken sob, spilling over his chest and Geralt’s fist in copious amounts, built up from several denials. Geralt squeezes out the last few drops from the tip, watching as he adds to the strips of release already running down the sides of his cock.

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes. He looks thoroughly ravished, covered in his own spend, Geralt’s release beginning to work his way back out of him.

“Jas…kier…?” He’s met with silence, and looks up to see Jaskier has passed out on the bathroom floor.

Geralt smiles.

Jaskier comes to, feeling like his limbs are floating. He moans as hands gently scratch through his scalp.

“You know,” Jaskier groans. “I can see what you like this so much.”

“Hm,” Geralt says.

Jaskier realizes the reason his limbs are floating is because they _are,_ because they're still in the bath in the room where he’d just been fucked to Nilfgaard and back. Geralt’s massive legs are caging him in as he sits on the lip of the tub, scrubbing his hair.

“Dunk your head,” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier follows, rinsing whatever soap Geralt had been working into his hair. When he emerges, it smells of—

“Chamomile…” Jaskier sighs, inhaling the scent coming off the suds.

“Indeed,” Geralt says.

“What a lovely change of pace,” Jaskier murmurs. “Flipping things around.” Geralt giving him things, Geralt scratching his fingers through Jaskiers hair. Geralt’s cock in his ass.

Geralt’s hands stroke down to his neck, massaging his muscles with the utmost tenderness. “Worry not, Jaskier," he murmurs. "I have you.”

Jaskier smiles, resting his head against the meat of Geralt’s thigh. “You do, dear heart. You do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Tell me what you think? I love these two boys.
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr!](https://bourneblack.tumblr.com)


End file.
